When Memories Hit

     I had a few errands to run today, the weather was absolutely beautiful, and I was enjoying myself to the fullest driving while singing along to the song that was playing.
    I glanced over to see what the temperature is and noted the date that was displayed. June 2nd. Hmm ... something seemed significant about it somehow, but why?
    And then it hit me. Two years ago I was at my parents house. The music kept playing but I was no longer aware of it as the memories started washing over me.
    Fifteen years earlier everything changed when we left the Amish. Overnight we lost ninety-eight percent of all our friends and family. The hardest relationship to lose was the one I had with my Mom. Up until then she had been my best friend, sister, and mother all rolled up into one.
    Other than two random lovely days, those fifteen years were like a giant desert, dry and barren, with only occasional cacti to get stung by, some more vicious than others leaving their spines impaled deeply.
    I thought of her daily though and often whispered little prayers that somehow God would restore our relationship. I learned so many new songs, and would wish I could get to sing with Mom once again. I tried hundreds of new recipes during those fifteen years and wished I could cook for her. As I did crafts I wished I could sit and talk while we did hand sewing. I wished she could see our children and what a delight they are to LV and me.
    And then the news came of her fast growing brain tumor.
    I asked if I could come, and they eagerly accepted. I loaded up the girls and Steven and drove the 555 miles to their house.
    She was happy to see me. Immediately the past was forgiven, and our relationship miraculously restored. "I missed you so much," she said, "but I thought I can't have contact with you since you left the faith. If I could do things over I wouldn't do it the same."
    We cried over the wasted years, and then tried to pack everything we could into the few days I had at their house. She was weak, and stayed in her recliner, but we sang. We talked, and talked, and talked. I cooked all the meals. She absolutely delighted in the children. She asked me to hand stitch the binding onto a quilt she had made. 
    The night before we left she spoke a blessing over us, and said she can see we have chosen right for our family and to continue our journey with Jesus.
    We were going to leave early the next morning so we said our good-byes before we went to bed. Standing there I wanted so desperately to give her a hug, but hugs simply never happened in our Amish circle, and I wasn't sure how she would react. I couldn't risk another rebuff, so I simply clasped her hand before turning in for the night. Both of us acutely aware this would most likely be the last time we see each other.
    The week after we got back home I called everyday and always told her I love her before hanging up. Saying I love you was never done while we were Amish either, but I didn't care. She didn't repeat the words, but she did say, "Me too." every time.
    After that week she lost her ability to communicate, and on her 65th birthday God called her home.
    I pulled into the garage with tears streaming down my face. Tears of thankfulness that God had restored our relationship, that even though it was only for a very short amount of time He had made a way that all those whispered little prayers over the years were answered. Tears of regret for those fifteen wasted years. Tears of missing her horribly.